


Slow Love

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Intimacy, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve had this urge since last night,” she speaks hushedly, in a voice like she’s kneeling in a confessional.</p><p>The stars in her eyes twinkle again and her smile turns into a grin.</p><p>“I want to make you pretty. We could watch movies. Girl on girl. You in?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Love

* * *

 

The bird is sitting on top of the window again. Only its toes are visible, long claws curling around the wooden panel. And the sound - it’s piercing, high and loud. Sam turns the page of his newspaper, tries to ignore another impossible disappearance. Jess moves like a falling feather; softly, her feet barely touching the floor. She stops behind him, one hand’s fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, the other diving into Sam’s hair. Her fingertips rub at his scalp slowly.

The bird keeps singing, and Sam turns the page again. He drinks coffee, but the scent of peppermint mixes in with his senses, swirling through the air from the cup that Jess holds. Her palm moves over his neck, then lifts, leaving only her fingers to trail down his neck until her hand falls warm over his tense shoulder, and he remembers to relax. He breathes out, eyes closing. The strange woman haunts him, black and white like the newspaper’s picture, but her wide smile wiped from her face. That’s how they always found them. Somehow broken.

No one will find her.

His palm moves across the table blind, closes the newspaper.

 _This isn’t my life anymore_ , he tells himself firmly.  
Is that why he has those nightmares every night?

“It’s Saturday. Got any plans?” Jess asks him, her voice light and bright like the voice of the bird outside.

The two sounds twist and turn around each other, like a braid of sounds. Sam leans back and faces her from below, the gold of her curls running down her shoulders. She’s got a pimple on her cheek that wasn’t there yesterday. He reaches out, caresses her face beside the reddish mark. She’s beautiful and bare, the spaghetti strap of her top slipping down her arm.

“Nothing,” Sam tells her, his voice softer than usual.  
His chest tightens and he breathes out, hearing the small hitches in the exhale.

She looks down at him and there are stars trapped inside her eyes, twinkling within the morning-lit colour. Her lips turn into a playful smile and she runs her finger down Sam’s nose, her fingernail leaving a phantom itch over the sharp tip, before she sips her peppermint tea and looks away again.

“I’ve had this _urge_  since last night,” she speaks hushedly, in a voice like she’s kneeling in a confessional.

The fine hair on Sam’s neck stands up and he shivers. He feels like a lamb at slaughter with her. She could run that finger of hers down his chest and leave a gaping wound behind, reach right in and take out his heart. Their eyes meet and Sam’s breath leaves him, his lungs emptying and his lips parting to let the sigh out. He wants her to kiss him, but she doesn’t.

“Yeah?” he hears his exhale form out a word.

The stars twinkle again and her smile turns into a grin.  
“I want to make you pretty. We could watch movies. Girl on girl. You in?”

Sam’s brows lift and he chuckles, still breathless. His hand wraps around the coffee mug and he drinks, glancing away from Jess for just a moment before laughing nervously again and turning back.  
“Sounds scary,” he admits.

“That’s the thrill in it.”

“I guess I’m not going anywhere,” Sam says, and Jess seems satisfied with his answer as she nods.

The bird hops into the air, spreading wings to catch the wind. The sound of its feet lifting off the window is clear through it, as are the first two, three beats of its wings against the current. Sam breathes into his coffee, watches the ripples spread with goosebumps all over his skin.

 

* * *

 

She tells him he’s got a perfect face as she shaves him clean, makes sure there’s no shadow left, nothing to grind against the softness of her own face when they kiss. He knows she loves it - the burn of his early morning stubble scratching her skin - but he doesn’t say a thing, and avoids looking into the mirror just the same. She combs his hair to the side, tucks a clip in to keep it there. He feels ridiculous, but she’s happy, and that’s all that matters.

She’s a bit of a hoarder. Sam’s not sure if all women are, but everybody on campus seems to be; she’s got clothes she’s grown out of, clothes she’s much too small for, clothes that stretch, clothes that should be thrown in the washing machine and boiled until they’ve shrunken three times smaller. Clothes, clothes, clothes. And Sam’s wearing them now. One by one, Jess drops the worst offenders into his arms.

“Try this,” she says, breathless and giggly with excitement.  
“Try that.”

She promised him no pictures, but sometimes, he has to sit down for fifteen minutes so that she can sketch him in some fake-frilly nightmare digging too deep into his armpits. He’s done nothing but studied for years, but it’s almost like his past refuses to let his muscles forget the vigorous training they’ve been through. His arms bulge through most the long-sleeved shirts, making them much too tight to wear. His chest is a nightmare. His shoulders wage war against the female cut shirts.

Finally, Jess pulls out a light brown, almost cream-coloured (”it’s beige, Sam”) shirt that seems to consist of a hood that slowly widens up to become the rest of the shirt. In the front, two straps hang over what Sam assumes would become the chest of the open hood, and the material seems soft, stretchy, so that not even the zipper in the middle can completely rule out the possibility of it fitting his enormous build. It looks like a bag. Sam’s seen her wear it; he’s made love to her with that thing on her, never taking it off, merely pulling down the zipper far enough to touch her bare chest underneath. He remembers the glow of her rose-coloured nipples, firm between his lips, against the earthy colour of the fabric. He swallows, looks away.

“You can’t not fit in this one,” she tells him, and she’s right.

He pulls it on, hopes against hope that the zipper won’t close, but it does. Jess pulls it up to his chest, leaves it open enough to show off his collarbones. It’s skin-tight around his body, but his body is shaped like the shirt was made to fit his form. He barely dares to look in the mirror, and while Jess is busy digging her fingers underneath the collar of his light grey pyjama pants, he quietly undoes the clip from his hair. It flows free, spreads back over his forehead, and he feels a knot in his chest loosen up. The hood rests against his back and he reaches for it as Jess’s palms move down the front of his thighs, and he pulls it over his head to hide.

Finding a pair of pants is easier. She’s not dressing him up for a night out, she’s dressing him up to stay in the bedroom the entire day. For Chinese delivery food and a movie marathon, lazy kisses and the bottle of cheap red wine he saw her smuggle in the day before. For petting over the clothes, for suggestive kissing, for spreading him on the mattress and grinding against him slowly as their lips move together, like slow-motion wrestling, like an act of war that can go on and on for tens of minutes without leading up to anything at all. She’s a slow lover. Makes sure he suffers most of the day before giving him anything. But when she gives, she - 

“It’d be easier to fit you in my pants if you didn’t try so hard to grow extra inches in the front there, hero.”

He laughs and covers his eyes.  
“Sorry.”

She likes his feet bare. That’s how she likes her own, too, despite the fact that her toes are always cold. It’s an excuse to tuck them underneath him, or make him massage her legs through. He doesn’t mind. His own are never cold.

“Your toes are growing fur,” she points out, running her finger over them when he pulls his feet up on the bed, his knees against his chest to protect him from all the invisible eyes witnessing him there.

Her touch makes him pull them in, dig them into the thick blanket underneath them. Their eyes meet and she leans in for a kiss.

“You’re still pretty to me,” she reassures him, and all he manages is a choked chuckle.

 _Dad would beat my ass if he saw me looking like this,_  he finds himself thinking. He doesn’t quite dare to think about Dean.


End file.
